


The Prisoner

by BlixaLooksCarsick



Category: Megami Tensei, Persona 5, Shin Megami Tensei, persona - Fandom
Genre: Akira in juvie hall, Bittersweet, Foul Language, Gen, Taking place in game, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-18
Updated: 2018-09-08
Packaged: 2019-06-29 02:37:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 18,303
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15720237
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BlixaLooksCarsick/pseuds/BlixaLooksCarsick
Summary: To protect his friends, his comrades, Akira is to turn himself. As he reluctantly lets go of those he loves, a strange new experience awaits him.





	1. The Walk

**Author's Note:**

> It dawned on me, while writing the outline for "Bloody Masquerade" that a few things need a bit more context to flow organically. Plus, it's hard to believe Joker would simply slack off even behind bars. It's only a minor implication, but ever wondered how stuff went in the youth correctional centre and the extent of the favour Iwai asked to keep Akira/Ren safe?
> 
> I certainly have.

His final interrogation was over and his fate sealed by the look of it. Akira Kurusu felt somewhat motivated considering he had wept the night before. Even as a child, he was at ease when in solitude; but on the night before Christmas, as a young man, he felt truly alone. For all the things the Phantom Thieves achieved, all the lives they prevented from becoming undone, Akira was still to turn himself in as leader of the Phantom Thieves to prosecute Masayoshi Shido, a man whose despicable deeds would have doomed the nation. Above all, he chose to do this to protect his friends and comrades, and to protect someone he held most dear.

Makoto wished to spend Christmas Eve with him. He could not turn her down – he needed to be with her, one last time. How he wished to tell her of what he had to do, how desperately he wanted to hold her tight and kiss her and hear her voice telling him all would be fine. If she said it, he would believe it and never doubt it for a second. But he could not bring himself to tell her. The immediate reaction, after all they had been through, would be pain. So he kept quiet and gave himself to the now. However, Makoto heard something from her sister on the matter, and the wound in Akira’s heart was exposed. Though she could not see the image in all its clarity, Makoto saw through Akira’s efforts to keep the truth from her.

She left then, worried and saddened. Akira could not hope for any semblance of a loving farewell. All he could do was break every promise he made to her on sunset dyed afternoons and late night conversations. Without his closest companion, Morgana, to give him consolation, Akira had little else to do but turn in early. He knew he failed his girlfriend. Deep in dreamless slumber, tears landed on the pillow. Come the morrow, things had somehow gotten worse.

Makoto was there as soon as Sojiro arrived to open the café. It was not like her to knock frantically on the café’s door to be let it, but the shaking in her hands said one second longer might have done it. She saw him right as he made his way downstairs to leave as early as possible, and her silence spelled it out clear. She knew. Sae was also there that morning, with shame written all over her face. Not only had she been forced to opt for this measure to fully prosecute Shido, she also had to disclose this to her sister. In the end, Sae proved a steadfast ally to the Phantom Thieves’ justice. Without her aid, Shido would have wrought ruin upon becoming Prime Minister, and Akira would be dead.

Still, Sae could face neither Makoto nor Akira. In light of circumstances, it was only fair she explained things to the other adult in the room, a baffled Sojiro Sakura who already understood he was about to lose the closest thing he had to a son. Sae discreetly asked Boss to accompany her outside, leaving both youths in the café.

Eyes on the floor, Akira would not look at her from the shadow of his hooded sweatshirt. For the first time in a year, he felt no confidence in anything he could say or do – he was catatonic. But not Makoto. She grabbed his hand at once and pulled it towards her as if vehemently urging him to stay. Still he would not turn to look at her. He knew that if he gave in for even one inch, he would falter and compromise her and their friends. And yet…

“There has to be another way!” Her heart was in her breath. “Please! Look at me!”

“Makoto…” His voice was tired. “It’s for the best.”

“Please… no.” 

His felt his time running out. Now or never.

“I love you.” His words were sincere to the very root. Yet they were heavy and blunt as stone.

He did not expect what occurred then. Her hand clamped his shoulder like an iron claw. He could have opposed resistance to her strength and it would have made no difference. She turned him around to face her with daunting force. And before he could react, she embraced him fiercely, protectively. His breath was almost squeezed out of him. 

“I will wait for you…” She spoke in his ear. “I love you.”

Their time had run out. Physical strength alone could not have parted them. It was only by their wills that they separated from their embrace, slowly and reluctantly until the one remaining bond was one hand cuffed in the other. The lingering sensation of his touch stayed with her, as her did with him. Thus began an unbearably long day. Makoto spent most of the day in LeBlanc after Akira left. At several times she excused herself to go to the restroom, coming out more red-eyed every time. Akira’s presence was still in the air, like a silhouette that clung to everything he ever touched, almost a real thing despite his definite absence.

As for Akira, the world between LeBlanc and his next destination was a blur. The contrast between both places was a blow to the senses. Whereas the café inspired warmth and comfort, the very exterior of the youth detention centre was cold and sterile, like a catacomb. Another interrogation ensued, along with tedious paperwork which Sae helped him with. Despite his assertive responses, all he could hear was still Makoto throughout the entire length of it all. His spirit was wounded, but not broken; it would surely hold, so long she kept her voice, and that of his friends echoing in his thoughts.

Then, a strange sound brought him to the present. It was like wail of the undead, the cackling of the damned, the roar of the possessed, all at once originating from the depths of Juvie Hall. It took him a few seconds to realise it was the sound of chaotic joy. Akira soon came to learn the place was far from a tomb, it was full of life, loud and unruly. And eyes, lots of them, many following him as he made his way past mess hall towards the cell blocks. Sae and the warden, a tall, lean man in his fifties with sharp features called Saito Himonya walked behind him.

The inside of the cell was what he expected it to be. Two bunks beds, a desk, a sink and shoe lockers. Everything fit neatly in the reduced space, which looked well maintained. It strangely did not feel constrictive either. There was even a small window at the very top of the wall, through which the sun would easily light the room if it was not so cloudy. 

“Your cellmate his doing his duties at the moment. You will meet him at lunchtime, Kurusu-kun.” Himonya told him with a voice that could be either warm or cold.

“I trust you will be on your best behaviour, Akira.” Sae joined in. “Himonya-san, could you give us a minute?”

“Of course,” the man said as he stooped down on walking through the door.

“Akira. I want, no, I need you to know that you did the right thing, from the beginning. I am sorry that I could not help you better - that we had to resort to this. Just know that we won’t leave you here. We’ll find a way, I promise.”

“Thank you, Sae-san.” Akira said discreetly.

“And please, be very careful. If anything happens, call me.”

“Sae-san. Thank you for your support. I know this is hard, on all of us. But rest assured, I have no regrets.”

Sae only nodded. She bowed as means of farewell, but before she walked out of the cell, she turned to him one last time.

“Loyalty is a precious thing, so is the willingness to defend and stand up for those you care for. I’d like to think my sister would be well with someone like you.”

Akira smiled. He thought it best not to disclose anything on the matter. Maybe one day… Then, Makoto’s words rang back in his ears. It felt as if she had just said them. Other voices joined in the stream of thought. Ryuji, Ann, Yusuke, Futaba, Haru, and Morgana. Absence was not an easy burden to deal with, but never in the entire time he had known them did they give him a reason to doubt. They trusted so much to him, and he never let them down. Would it not be fair to have some faith on them? Would it not be worth enduring whatever may come to see them again at the end of this tunnel? 

He was a prisoner once more, but no longer to fate. 

“Hey you, aren’t you a fancy looking dude?” A high pitched screech of a voice pulled Akira out of his thoughts. In his sudden startle, the image of a thin, pale youth with shaggy red hair looked like an alien apparition. “So you’re gonna be my cellmate, huh? Name’s Yasunori Kujo. Who are you?”

“Akira Kurusu. Nice to meet you.” 

“Formal guy, huh? Ease down on that while you’re here. Trust me. Not saying you’ll get bullied for that; at least not just that, huh?”

“I see.”

“Good thing I met you quick too. See, the best time to get locked up is at night, cause then you don’t have to wander around the place with nothing to do. Trust me, though, you will be given stuff to do. But, well… you’ll soon enough.” He made a brushing-off gesture. “Let’s go eat, huh?”

“Sure.” Suddenly Akira felt just the same as he did when he first set foot on Shujin. Though probably nobody would judge him here like in Shujin, he was undeniably as much of an outsider in that moment. Same as back then, his first acquaintance was somewhat eager to show him the ropes. This fellow somewhat reminded him of Ryuji, something as reassuring as it was haunting. Nonetheless, Akira smirked at the thought that a strange phenomenon could occur in the correction facility, in turn causing them to bond over an effort to stand against it. If they were lucky, a library mouse might join them.

Then his smirk faded. Given the heap of the crimes he was charged with, the eventuality of his release lay far in the distance. But whether he was let go tomorrow or in four years, Morgana would still not be there. 

Yasunori kept talking, seemingly oblivious to Akira’s heavy introspection. The latter clung to the carefree, somewhat grating, sound of his words to stave off the dread in his mind. Yasunori spoke quickly, but he was clear when pointing out the more useful information. Akira took strict mental note of it all. However, bits of syllables snuck in his head every now and then. Together, they formed one question.

“Would you really wait for me?”

Akira frantically tried shaking it off. 

The taste of the food did little to change his inner tune. It was not unpleasant, but it was definitely bland and lacking in flavour –cleaning his plate left him hungrier, especially when thinking about the curry and coffee Sojiro taught him how to make. 

“Do we get kitchen duty?” Akira asked him. The sudden nature of his question seemed to take Yasunori aback; he was caught quiet for the first time since they met, maybe even for the first time in his life.

“Yeah, guy. Why?”

“I like cooking.” Akira responded plainly.

“Oh, okay. I mean, hopefully nothing fancy. We don’t get much to work with. Chances are one of the guys here cooked this. Oh, but speaking of stuff we do. Come, this will make you look forward to lunchtime.” Yasunori led Akira to the kitchen in the back of the mess hall. Just as he guessed, there were two other young inmates in there; two rowdy looking boys who fixed their eyes on Yasunori and Akira like nails as soon as they walked in. Yasunori paid them no mind as he walked towards one of the modest-looking refrigerators. “Drink this.” He handed Akira the container of a liquefier. 

“What is this?” Akira asked, observing the beverage. Only a fifth of the whole left.

“It’s good for you – that’s what it is. Come on, look, it’s mostly empty now. Guys do come tip some and the staff doesn’t keep anything here longer than three days.”

Yasunori sounded secure. Akira decided to go along, especially with the two others behind them. In one swoop, he tipped the container down his throat. He could not drink the pale liquid in one go; it was too thick and chunky to go down quick. It did not appear in that moment to be a prank by Yasunori, however. Despite its consistency, the shake was quite good. 

“What’s in this?” Akira asked, passing the tongue of his teeth. 

“Oh, you know. Cocoa, bananas, some vanilla, and a secret ingredient – my spit.”

“Eh, could be worse.” Akira downed the rest of the beverage, undaunted by the revealing of the secret ingredient.

“Don’t listen to him.” One of the two youths in kitchen duty called out behind them. “He just says its bananas and cocoa so people will drink it without being grossed out.”

“Rooster, why don’t you tell him what’s really in it?”

“Well, he’s already drunk it. Can’t hurt, huh? It’s tuna, peanut butter, pineapple flavoured water… and bananas, yeah – that one was no lie.”

“That’s his protein shake, he thinks.” One of the youths laughed with some malice. “That’ll make you buff, Rooster? That’ll get you ripped?”

“Hey, it might!” 

Akira could only look at Yasunori “Rooster” Kujo with confused eyes. His time as a prisoner may not be shaping to be the dreadful time he expected at first. But even without a reprisal of the Metaverse that welcomed him to his life in Tokyo, he was headed for strange times. 

“If you are still there when I get out, I’ll have quite a few stories to tell you.” He thought to himself.


	2. Thugs

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Life in Juvie Hall is starting to get eventful. His stint as a Phantom Thief may be over, but Akira Kurusu, the Trickster, cannot allow himself to go rusty.

It quickly became apparent Juvie Hall was a world of its own, quite apart from the outside. The figures of authority looked on the boys with an almost sage-like compassion. Rather than focusing on condemning and punishing the faults society was so keen on rooting out, they were more devoted to reforming them – educating and strengthening them. On the first day alone, Akira sensed better instincts in Himonya-san than he ever did in Principal Kobayakawa. This was a vital contradiction, one of many that plagued Japan’s social ways, Akira thought bitterly. 

It was reassuring to know that adults like Saito Himonya and Sae Niijima were committed to improving society for all in some way. But little would be achieved as long as like-minded people prioritised healing the wounds, rather than nurturing the body as it develops. It was still too soon to judge, however. Akira knew he could not look too harshly on the future when change takes time and effort. For now, all he could do was live in the present, in the world he was now part of.

Akira knew he belonged in it. Like the rest, he had done something that went against the way society operates; like the rest, he was and would be met with taboo and prejudice outside these walls; and like the rest, regardless of whether he found a way to live in peace in this correctional institution, he yearned to get out. Unfortunately, several of the other youths found his presence to be an anomaly, one that deserved a shunning, a taboo of its own. He expected to endure his sentence without much trouble, as long as he kept himself to himself. 

This worked well for three days. Or so he believed. The truth was, the eyes that stalked from the corners were merely observing in silence, searching out his weaknesses. The first lunge came on the third day. Before then, the most eventful thing in Akira’s life in the correctional was hearing how intensely Yasunori’s voice bounced off the walls. Then, on the fourth day, there was a snarl on his ear.

The young man with thick, poorly cut, dark brown hair had been following Akira for several minutes, convinced he could not tell of his presence. He stood behind the new inmate during lunchtime. The others were long accustomed to this rite, so they barely said a thing, knowing they would be better off without having the Rabid Dog on their tails. Akira could tell by Yasunori’s expression, as he awkwardly munched on his food, that he wanted to warn him, but could not. So he kept his cool, and gave nothing away. When the Dog snarled on his ear with a manic expression, he did not find the startle he was clearly looking for. 

Akira simply turned to look at him. 

“Hello.” He said, deadpan. 

“New guy.” The Dog smirked with arrogance.

“That’s me.”

“Do you know who I am?”

From the corner of his eye, Akira could see Yasunori going into a panicked frenzy. The pieces fit together well before knowing the full story. He had to measure his words carefully if he wanted to keep out of trouble.

“I’m afraid not.”

“’I’m afraid not’, Haha.” The Dog mocked. “Well, Mister. Let me introduce myself.” He placed a thin, long hand on his shoulder and gripped with deceptive strength. “My name is Shogo. I am the Rabid Dog. And everyone here is my bitch, even you.”

Akira said nothing. His eyes did not reveal even the slightest of the irritation he started to feel.

“Isn’t that right, Bitch?” Shogo spoke in Yasunori’s direction. 

“Y-yes, Shogo.” 

“I’m the butch. Who are you?”

“I’m the bitch.” Yasunori said with a tone of defeat.

“I’m the sausage. What are you?”

“I’m… the muffin.”

“How’s that for an introduction, new guy? Tell me then, who are you?”

“I am Akira Kurusu.” His voice was stripped from anger or pride, or any discernible verbal incendiary. His instinct of self-preservation knew what he was to say, but his sense of self had a louder voice.

“You don’t get it…” Shogo shook his head.

Suddenly, out of nowhere, a sharp pain struck Akira’s side. From nowhere, a knee against his ribs. He found himself grasping for air, turning to his right but finding nothing. Yasunori stood up and ran to Akira’s aid. 

“… You just don’t get it. But you will, soon.” Shogo declared, leaving their table. Nobody looked in his direction, let alone showed Yasunori’s disposition. 

“I told you not to be too quiet. Shit, guy. I can’t go scaremongering around here, but you gotta know, the quiet ones draw attention.”

Akira coughed, adding a slope of pain at every movement. 

“Now he’s not gonna leave you in peace. We can only hope he gets bored of you soon.” 

“He… didn’t kick me, did he?” Akira struggled to ask.

“No. I don’t know who did, but it was one of his ‘bitches’. They follow him around and follow his every word. Are you okay to stand?” He patiently waited for the new inmate’s response.

“Yeah… How many friends does he have?”

“Like four. But nobody wants to touch him, even if we all outnumber him.”

“Why not?”

“You really don’t wanna know, guy.” Few times had Akira seen someone with an expression as hopeless as Yasunori’s. “Nobody can touch him.”

“He’s somebody’s son, I take it.” The memory of Haru’s former fiancé rang foul in his thoughts.

“Yeah… Let’s drop the subject, though. No good dwelling on stuff you can’t change, huh?”

Akira nodded in silence. He knew his first and only friend in the correctional facility meant well. But he was either naïve or wilfully hopeful. Shogo would not leave him alone now that he had a taste of the newcomer’s blood. As a former Phantom Thief, he knew the wild extremes of misguided desires and deliberate cruelty. It was quite possible that he one day would be released, but that day was unlikely to arrive soon. Only four days so far. There was still an uncertain length to endure ahead. 

It was almost time for the welding workshop. Akira proved readily adept at this, having spent almost a full year crafting lock picks and small gadgets at his desk. Doing something he was competent at would often ease his nerves when balancing school and heart-stealing. No so this time, as he dwelled heavily on his options and unlikely solutions to his predicament. He needed to get through his sentence without further trouble.

Yasunori interrupted his train of thought as they walked back to the cell block.

“Don’t freak out, guy. But someone’s got you in his sights.”

“Shogo?”

“No, this is… different. Don’t turn around. Let’s just go in. I’ll tell you tomorrow when it’s not so obvious.”

“More unwanted attention, I see.”

“Yeah… Shit, guy. I think you pulled a short straw somewhere.”

Akira sighed, mentally exhausted. The air flowed easy out of his lungs and the strike on his side had stopped hurting. However, the thought that someone else may be joining in his harassment brought back his physical discomfort. It did not help any that Yasunori looked so tense for the remainder of the evening. 

The next morning, Shogo made his presence known again. This time, two of his associates apportioned abuse on both Akira and Yasunori during breakfast. Both of them endured it, but it became evident that the latter had suffered at Shogo’s hands before. 

“See you around, Rooster.” Shogo delivered a cruel farewell, adding a few mocking syllables to the nickname. 

Yasunori waited until he was out of sight to spit blood on the floor. Akira could sense a growing impotence in him. He wondered how soon it would be before he felt the same way. Things appeared to calm down somewhat as the day went by, only to take another turn at lunchtime, heralded by another inmate standing behind Akira. He could read in Yasunori’s eyes that this was whoever was eyeing him the day before. 

“Are you Akira Kurusu?” A young man with a shaved head asked curtly. Barring the boyish look about his face, he looked like the stereotype of a violent delinquent. 

“I am.” Akira answered, knowing stoic frankness was his best choice.

“Come with me.” The boy beckoned, immediately walking for Akira, and Yasunori, to catch up.

It seemed, as they walked behind his swift walk that their surroundings turned darker, lonelier. The thuggish boy was leading them towards a region in the correctional Akira was strangely unfamiliar with – the library. The hallways leading to it were a labyrinth of matte-coloured walls that somewhat clashed with the rest of the building’s design. The three stopped at the library’s door. It was closed. The boy knocked with uncharacteristic delicacy. 

“Come in.” A deep voice came from the other side.

The boy took a quick breath and opened the door for Akira and Yasunori, who looked anxious and slightly fretful about coming along. Once they crossed the library threshold, the boy shut the door and went away. Akira experienced then a vague notion of feeling trapped. It was not the first time he felt something similar. At one point during his roguish career as a Phantom Thief, his friends and he were turned into mice; every step carried the tension of feeling cornered by Shadows who suffered no such disadvantage, finding refuge in air vents, squeaking their uneasy way along. 

“Come.” The voice called again, as deep as a cavern.

Akira knew he had little choice. His only comfort in face of the possible danger ahead was this individual’s voice was less grating than Shogo’s.

They met him sitting a table after turning the corner on a long bookcase. The first thing they saw were his eyes, fixed on their location, expecting their arrival. Though his attire was the same sweatshirt and gym pants as the rest of the inmates, he made it look formal merely by the way he stood up from his seat. Dark brown hair, unruly and thick. He was two inches shorter than Akira and three shorter than Yasunori, but the muscle on him topped them both. 

“Akira Kurusu.” He seemed to weigh the very words.

“I am him.” 

He nodded. The bulky young man approached him, barely seeming to notice Yasunori.

“My name is Daigo. I’ll get to the point. I hear you made an enemy already – the worst one you can make in here. Fortunately for you, I hear you also made a good friend outside. He’s been trying to pull some strings in the outskirts of one of the clans to see that nobody touches you while you complete your sentence.”

“Huh?” 

“Didn’t see you there, Rooster.” Daigo turned back to Akira. “I’m here to keep Shogo and his would-be friends off your back.”

Akira stayed silent. Hearing Daigo, he instantly thought of Iwai, owner of the airsoft store in Shibuya, and he hoped that he did not put himself at risk asking for this favour. Next to him, Yasunori seemed to go frantic, making wild gestures and unable to utter a sound. To any outsider, the sum of two and two spelled a concerning image. The circumstances circling Akira painted him as more than just another young delinquent. Yet, was he not in fact so? In the cataract-ridden eyes of the law, he was perhaps one of the most dangerous criminals alive. A connection or two to the Yakuza should come as no surprise.

“I see. Thank you, Daigo-san.” Akira bowed. His relief was legitimate.

“No need to be so courteous. As Rooster here can attest to, formality can be an invitation to trouble in here. I will provide protection to the best of my abilities, but there are skills you will need to learn to endure when I won’t be able to help you.”

Learning was the word. Akira had never been a particularly devoted student. Acquiring and retaining knowledge came naturally to him, but learning was a different word to him altogether. To him, it was a process that engaged and sometimes obsessed him; better yet if it involved lateral thinking and the opportunity to use his hands. Coffee brewing, curry making, lock pick crafting, massaging, lobster taming. Akira always wanted to be able to do more and more. All at once, his day and the prospect of getting through his sentence looked brighter.

“I understand.”

“Good. We will start tomorrow. You can go on about your business. Nobody will disturb you for the remainder of the day.” Daigo sounded secure. 

“Will this extend to Yasunori as well?” Akira asked. His friend looked surprised to hear it.

“If he’s in your vicinity, probably.”

“Probably is not good enough.” Akira spoke.

Daigo said nothing. He squinted in irritation at the two young men standing before him. Akira looked at him straight in the eye, with no defiance or compromise. 

“Yes. He will be safe from Shogo as well.” Daigo conceded.

“Thank you, Daigo.” The sobriety in Akira’s voice was both comforting as it was disturbing.

“Dude…” Yasunori was caught in disbelief.

“I think I start to see how you came into that friendship.” Daigo remarked grimly. “Loyalty is valued better in some places than others.”

“I will take it as a compliment.” Akira responded.

Daigo said nothing. 

True to his word, Akira and Yasunori went both undisturbed for the rest of the day. The clearest sign of it was seeing Shogo in the distance as they returned to the mess hall. He had the clear intent of approaching them to dole out some more pain, yet he was hindered by the pleas of his friends who held him back. Although this was a pleasing turn of events, Akira would not fool himself into thinking the Dog would hold back indefinitely. There was hate in his eyes - it eventually would break out. Akira would need to be ready by then. Something in his gut told him so. An old voice that hissed with baleful poise in the face of confrontation. And its name was Arsene.


	3. The Naughty Craft

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Akira starts learning a few skills, which may or may not come in handy someday...

He saw her in his restless sleep the night before. A dream so real it ached to open his eyes and see the day start without her. In this dream, she gazed at him across the distance in a wide chamber illuminated with soft light. People danced carefree between and around them, like shadows blurring in and out of sight. Judging by the look on Makoto’s face, she wanted to give it a try but did not know how to. Akira himself had never danced before either, but the look in her eyes was a request he would far rather make a fool himself over than turn her down. He stood up and walked in her direction with confident strides. She started looking up as he approached, and barely managed to contain a bashful smile. The colour of her irises drowned his world red. 

Hand in hand, they took to the dance floor, uncaring of their inexperience. His free hand on the small of her back, hers just below the back of his neck. She felt right, and he knew he did to her as well. They picked up momentum as they went by, and though there was no sound to recall, she alone was the music. In this dream, they were having fun as the infatuated fools they truly were. Soon, the dance slows to an embrace, intimate, close, inevitable. Her eyes reach up; she is coy, but secure in her want. He can almost feel her breath becoming his, the contact of her lips. And before he knew it, the dream was all gone.

The winter sun reached into the cell with timid, cold light. Yasunori slept in the bunk above, clueless to Akira’s sigh. In about twenty minutes, all inmates would be called for breakfast, and then to their correspondent duties. Akira did not know what day it was; it sufficed him to know today was gardening duty. No cell phone allowed, and no desire to advance further into the book he borrowed from the library, he remained listless and silent until the morning bell summoned the inmates to the mess hall. 

The memory of the dream about Makoto remained in the waking world as a veil of silence. Yasunori noticed Akira was quieter than usual, but said nothing. Minutes after they began awkwardly chewing on their breakfast, they were joined by Daigo, who also did little to break the silence. Aside from a few anxious whispers in the mess hall, the entire area was also unnaturally quiet. A strange uncertainty was palpable. Akira raised his eyes ever so slightly to confirm what he suspected: mostly everybody’s eyes were on them. Neither Shogo, nor his lackeys were in sight. 

Daigo finished. He waited patiently for Akira and “Rooster”. Shortly after, Daigo took the empty dishes at their table and stacked them neatly in the kitchen for the inmates in duty to wash that day. Nobody approached the two waiting at the table, not even during Daigo’s short absence. Akira took the chance to get some preliminary footing on the situation.

“Is he also somebody’s son?” Akira asked discreetly.

“Huh? Yeah, he is. I mean, everyone’s somebody’s son, huh? Haha.” Yasunori’s chuckle was unconvincing. “No… he has no important relatives. That ain’t it, though.”

“I see.”

“Let’s go.” Daigo said upon joining them once more. “This way.”

“We have garden duty today.” Akira pointed out, aware that Daigo signalled the opposite direction.

“Not today.” His tone brooked no arguments. 

Yasunori showed no reluctance at all. Akira followed suit as the three headed for the gym, disappointed about missing out on working in the garden. The guard at the door stepped aside without question. The pieces were falling quietly into place. To get the full picture, Akira would need only to ask a formula of questions similar to those the Phantom Thieves used to pinpoint and access Palaces. However, doing so would only serve to satisfy his curiosity. 

The gym was only slightly larger than the library. The extra meters were occupied by a row of punching bags of varied size and weight. Later that week, Akira learnt this was one of two gyms in the facility; this was the smaller one. There was an unspoken rule among the inmates that everyone was to use the larger, better equipped gym. The smaller one was reserved for a small number of people. There was no restriction for anybody, yet it was still a line everybody abided by. 

“Akira Kurusu.” Daigo said, his voice bouncing off the walls. “I’m going to ask you a question. I recommend you respond sincerely.” He took a nod as an acknowledgement. “Have you ever fought before?”

His line of thought should have been obvious, considering where Daigo had taken them. Nonetheless, the question still took him off guard. Akira could not go and expose himself as one of the infamous Phantom Thieves, let alone their leader. As a consequence, he indeed was forced to fight. One could easily say he was forced to fight for his life, at that. His common sense would tell him to downplay his experience a few notches, perhaps say he had taken to practice Wing Chun on the wooden dummy at a gym in Shibuya. However, Daigo may see through that.

“I see.” The brawny inmate took his silence as an adequate reply. “Stand in front of the lighter bag and throw a few punches, mimic some dodging too. I’ll tell you when to stop.” He turned towards Yasunori. “You. Medium bag. Same thing.”

Akira was taken aback for a moment but he complied before Daigo repeated himself. He found the guard he had developed while sparring on the wooden dummy was inadequate for the bag, and he could not well try to adapt the spontaneous, formless style he developed as Joker. So he clumsily put up as best a boxing guard he could and began throwing punches. High. High. Low. High. High. Low. Low. High. Low. He repeated the pattern, dodging with the hip at random intervals. He expected the dryly observing Daigo to interrupt him within a few minutes. Both he and Yasunori were drenched in sweat when he did. 

“No rust in your joints, Rooster. Good.” He threw Yasunori a towel and a water bottle. “Kurusu. You…” He appeared to grasp for the right words. “You have skill and strength, but this… this is not your form.” Daigo started to idly pace about the bag, hands and face in contemplation. “It will be lunch time soon. Afterwards, you two will be attending your assigned duties. We will pick back up tomorrow. I will expect you two to meet me here as soon as you are done with breakfast.” 

Suddenly, without the slightest semblance of anticipation, Daigo pushed the bag against Akira with great force. Yasunori yelped high and fell backward from the shock. Although Akira did not see it coming either, his reflexes fired on the spot. He lunged forward and slightly to the side, and in one single motion, pushed back hitting the bag with his left shoulder, averting most of the impact.

“Hmm, alright. I think I see what your form may be.” Daigo remarked. His voice was almost devoid of emotion.

“D-Daigo… What was!?” Yasunori blurted out, seemingly unable to stand back up.

“Same time tomorrow. Be on your way.” Daigo said, ignoring Yasunori.

Sure enough, Akira and Yasunori headed for lunch, and worked on their assigned duties afterwards, with pieces of their long conversation intertwined. It was obvious that the motive of his sentence was kept from the rest of the inmates, as per the warden’s decision. When Yasunori asked him the reason of his imprisonment, Akira claimed theft and vandalism, which was technically not a lie. In response, Yasunori told him he landed himself in the correctional facility a second time; this and his previous sentences were both for theft as well. His motives were the reason he was given lenience this second time. His father had landed himself in gambling debts. In order to help him out of the red, Yasunori had resorted to stealing a reselling electronics. 

He admitted that, upon release, he would return to do the same misdeed. A couple more goods sold and whatever his father managed to save from his job should do the trick to end his debt. He reckoned he would most likely be arrested again, and perhaps tried as an adult this time around. The prospect did not seem to deter him. 

“He’s the only family I have left.” Yasunori said.

“I see.” Akira’s tone was enough to convey some sympathy. Behind his brief acknowledgement, a river of thoughts broke out. The relation he had with his own father seemed to be wounded. It would soon be one year of silence between father and son, and somehow neither appeared willing to end the spell. He wondered if his parents had been informed of his incarceration. Akira could picture his mother’s disappointment, but when it came to his father, he could only draw a blank. He wished he could bring himself to speak of his family. He wished he could see them again.

Yasunori had a skill for reading other people. He was considerate enough not to pry, instead opting for another topic.

“So, you got anyone waiting for you outside?”

“What do you mean?”

“You know! Like, a girl, a woman?” Yasunori laughed in a high pitch. “I got a few myself! What about you, guy?”

“Yeah. There is someone waiting for me.” He could not supress a smile.

“You ain’t joking, guy. You’re as red as the devil’s dick!”

Akira knew he was not just teasing him on that.

“So? What’s her name? What’s she like?”

“Her name is Makoto.” Akira savoured the syllables of her name like they were honey on his tongue. “She is the best girl.”

“And?”

“I needn’t say any more.” Akira smirked, aware that he needed to be discreet regarding his friends and significant other in his current situation, knowing also that words would fail him if he were to speak about her. 

The following day started as usual. Akira was starting to become accustomed to it all by now. Yet Daigo’s instruction would likely keep stagnancy at bay. He made sure to warm up before breakfast, especially if the bulwark of a young man would be throwing any more punching bags at him. To his surprise, Yasunori’s attitude towards their newest morning duties was far from the anxiety of previous days. It was almost as if he enjoyed it. But then, Akira thought, was he also not enjoying it himself, to some degree? 

Daigo met the two as agreed the day before. 

“Good morning.” He walked straight for the punching bags. “Rooster, same as yesterday. Kurusu… you come with me.” He lead him towards the heaviest the punching bag, the one that saw the least use. “Same as yesterday. Almost. Use your legs, knees and elbows – anything you feel you can do damage with.” An imperious, ominous tone crept at the end of Daigo’s words. All things considered, Akira had a solid idea of what Daigo was, as an inmate, but only now did the likelihood of a violent background truly came into sight.

“Alright.” He was no longer sure if he would truly be looking forward to these sessions. 

Daigo stood behind the punching bag, holding it firmly against his chest. 

“Go.”

Two hours later, Akira was twice as tired as the previous day. Daigo’s yelling flurry to hit harder continued to echo inside of his head. His limbs ached badly, and he could barely walk without visibly cringing. For a moment, he pictured Makoto hitting the punching bag – no strange picture considering the way she fought the Shadows of the Metaverse. She once told him, in the intimacy of his bedroom, that she wanted them both to be equals. He was not sure she would have thought of something like this, but the notion of her coaching him was more than appealing. 

He was still sore the morning after. Rooster’s training varied little. Same could not be said about Akira’s. There is an old adage that says “give a man a fish, and he will dine for one night; teach a man how to fish, and will dine for the rest of his life.” Even though Yasunori and he spent less time with the other inmates, they were drawing attention, especially Shogo’s. Daigo may be able to keep him safe for a long while, but he should not be complacent with the notion. In the end, the safest measure was to make sure he could defend himself on his own. 

That is why Daigo was doing more than teaching Akira how to fight like a Yakuza. He was honing his form past that, shaping what Akira had already developed as a Phantom Thief into an art of his own. By the end of that week, Akira had a new set of skills, one Daigo told him he would be wise to keep sharp often on his own. 

The following day, Daigo taught him to smoke. In between violent fits of coughing and teary eyes, Akira wondered how is it that Sojiro seemed to enjoy a cigarette before coffee. Come afternoon, Daigo joined them at lunch for a change. Then began a more cerebral, intuitive subject – behaviour. The unlikely mentor explained that imprisonment had a tendency to change people; while some changed only slightly, others became a different person. Even in Juvie Hall, where rehabilitation was the priority and sentences were relatively short. The best course of action is to stay ahead of the curve and steer the degree of change. Daigo suggested a tattoo would be a suitable first step. He acknowledged it as a joke immediately after.

Akira and Yasunori were both baffled that he had a sense of humour. 

That night, as he lay in his bunk, Akira reflected upon Daigo’s words. His experience as the leader of the Phantom Thieves had undeniably changed him. But even a comparatively mundane setting such as this would do the same as time went by. He tried to imagine what Yasunori, Daigo, and Shogo were like, before decisions and chance led them to this place. When he got out, would he be the same person who chose to turn himself in? Would his friends recognise him still? Would Makoto? Would his parents? Would himself?


	4. Nibbling Away

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A loving gesture from Akira's friends outside becomes a catastrophe within the walls of Juvie Hall. 
> 
> Crude, offensive language ahead.

They met that morning in Akira’s room, vacant of his presence. The plan was coming together. As soon as the memory of Morgana dispelled their hopelessness, all shoulders were put to the wheel. So, the Phantom Thieves crafted the blueprint to their goal: the release of their friend Akira from Juvie Hall. The end goal was to exonerate Akira from the very crime that led to his initial arrest by bringing the infamous night under scrutiny. All shoulders were put to the wheel, and there would be no compromise on their part. 

New Year’s Eve was around the corner, and nobody could stomach the very notion of leaving Akira with silence on the day. Though he would not be counting down to the New Year at their side, they could at least reach out and remind him: they will never abandon him. Haru came up with the first iteration of the idea. A message from them all, and Boss, directly to him. Ryuji suggested a phone call, but Ann pointed out that it would surely be a mess and Akira would probably be given little time to take the call. Yusuke suggested a letter. While everyone agreed, Futaba remarked that somebody would need to write it. Everyone turned to look at Makoto, who had been somewhat quiet that morning.

“Yes. We ought to start right away if we want Akira to receive it before New Year.” Her response was sound and swift enough to stave off any concern about her. Her emotions had been in constant flux since Christmas Eve. She was sad and angry, not only about her boyfriend being away, but by the sheer unjustness of it all. Her core instincts demanded a right to this wrong. And while it would come to be, she felt a pressing need to reassure the victim, to soothe and to protect. She would be failing herself if she did any less. 

“Sojiro! We’re gonna need coffee over here!” Futaba called out to her father downstairs.

“Come now. He has customers, one of us should go fetch the drinks.” Ann said.

“I guess… Inari, GO!” Futaba made a throwing motion towards the stairs. 

To her surprise, Yusuke stood up and walked downstairs without a word in protest or acknowledgement. Two minutes later, he returned empty-handed, declaring he just needed to use the restroom. Everybody’s notebooks were out by then, a few notes here and there, scribbled and scratched out as they decided on what to tell Akira. Both Yusuke and Haru brought the coffee and the soft drinks upstairs a while later. 

They took two hours to write it all down – several pages of varied handwriting styles, from the illegible to the intoxicatingly sophisticate. Makoto volunteered to put it all together, transcribe their messages into one neat document. This was certainly a tedious task, one nobody really wanted to do. But gracious as her gesture was, she had intentions of her own. 

Though sometimes Ryuji or Ann would tease them, the relationship between Makoto and Akira was something they agreed to keep under wraps while they were engaged in stealing villainous hearts; it was a measure they found both sensible and thrilling. But this time, she could not add her words to the rest as just a friend and comrade. She wanted to send her love to him, as vigorously as a letter could afford.

She excused herself to work on putting their messages together. This took her most of the afternoon and the evening. She then stayed up long into the wee hours, writing something more intimate, pouring her heart out to him, minding grammar and coherence far less than she would otherwise. Come the morrow, she furtively slid her letter to Akira with their friends into the envelope and sent it herself. Afterwards, she headed to her room, and buried her face in a Buchimaru-kun cushion, falling asleep immediately. 

[ ]

Something uncommon was occurring during breakfast. The mess hall vibrated with an uncharacteristic bustle that morning. The trio of Akira, Yasunori and Daigo noticed how much of it gravitated around Shogo and his people. The smirks and mocking glances cast their way were cause for concern.

“What the hell is going on?” Yasunori wondered out loud.

“Beats me.” Akira replied, concealing an unpleasant instinct in his gut.

“Nothing important.” Daigo added.

“Definitely doesn’t look like nothing important. I haven’t seen Shogo so happy in a while.” Yasunori insisted.

“Rooster. Shogo knows what’s at stake. Even he wouldn’t risk upsetting a clan’s instruction.” 

“I guess you’re right. Maybe it’s all mind games.”

Akira remained silent. The sensation worsened. His pulse quickened.

“Regardless. Even if he tried anything. He would need to face me.” Daigo spoke. Despite the boastful nature of his words, his tone hinted at no boisterous pride to his claim. Even when he was not around, the weight of his earlier presence was virtually a barrier that kept Akira and Yasunori safe. The latter chose not to go into detail, but even in vague words, Akira understood how dangerous Daigo was in spite of his young age.

“That’s true.” Yasunori chuckled nervously. “It must be nothing.”

The noise was only getting louder, rowdier. Akira could closed his eyes for a moment, and focused his ears on Shogo’s corner. He could hear wild cackling, mocking voices breaking into grating laughter, profanity. Among the thick marsh tone of sound, four words stood out, spoken by Shogo, tainted and defiled by Shogo’s crude tone. 

“Akira? You okay?” Yasunori noticed the shadow on his expression. He saw the devil blinking in his eye – the sign of a heart skipping a beat. 

There was no mistaking what he heard from Shogo’s mouth. 

All my love, Makoto.

It took all of his inner fortitude to resist the temptation to walk into the den of the hyenas. And it was all but one second before he silently stood up and walked towards Shogo and the dozen inmates around him. His strides were long and swift, and his incredulous companions delayed to catch up, knowing of the danger he was putting himself in. 

Akira cared none. Protection of those he cared for was the reason he was inside. He would not stand idly by and let any offence or misfortune befall them, by action or word. Tenfold so when it came to Makoto Niijima. By merely saying her name, Shogo had committed a grave offence in Akira’s eyes. 

Was this the sensible course of action, however? Was this an expression of love, or his own pride? Akira gave no room to think on the matter. The only future and the only reflection he cared about was the few seconds between one step and the next. He felt Yasunori’s hand on his right shoulder – he shrugged it off. He then felt Daigo’s heavy hand on the left shoulder, and he could go no further. By now, he was standing in the threshold of Shogo’s dominions.

“Give it to me.” Akira said with a dull tone, seemingly devoid of emotion.

“What was that?” Shogo asked with a spiteful smile.

“Give that letter to me.” Akira repeated more slowly. His anger subtly showed through.

Shogo looked at the white sheet of paper, turned it around and gazed at the two pages in his other hand. He barely seemed able or willing to contain his laughter. 

“I imagined you’d have a couple of loser friends outside… but a girlfriend? You? Wow…” He sniffed Makoto’s half of the letter. “You could swear this chick sprayed something on this thing. Hey, you…” He handed the sheet to one of his lackeys. “Do you smell it too?”

The inmate took the letter and sniffed with exaggerated demeanour, and then passed his tongue over it. “Yeah, she did.”

“Classy.” Shogo took the letter back. “So, Kurusu… is she hot?”

Akira said nothing.

“You know, for all I know she could be some ugly, fat slut. But reading this… no, I think she must be pretty. A real head turner, I bet. Go you!” Shogo smiled widely. “I bet she has a nice body with curves on all the right places. You know, and a tight little pink cunt.” He mimicked a slow and vulgar fingering motion with his hands.

No response from Akira. In truth, both Yasunori and Daigo showed each a more visible response.

“Damn. I was sure that’d get you riled up. Maybe you just don’t care that much about her, man. That’s a fucking shame. Tell you what, though. As soon as I get out of here, I’m paying her a visit. I’ll show her there are still gentlemen in the world.” Shogo hissed. “I’ll show her real good.”

“Akira, let’s go.” Yasunori spoke firm and serious. “Now.” 

Daigo and Yasunori walked behind Akira as they headed towards the gym. But even as they retired from the mess hall, they could hear Shogo reading Makoto’s letter out loud, yelling almost, for Akira to hear.

“Rooster, you know the drill. Akira, you too.” Daigo said as he joined them for this occasion, taking the one vacant punching bag, delivering steady, swift strikes. If only for a moment, it seemed as if he also needed to unwind. 

They kept on for little over half an hour. Every now and then, Akira felt the glances of his companions like searchlights over his shoulder. His anger was not showing through his punches or kicks, but by how they failed to lift the shadow over his brow. Two times already Daigo told them to pick up the pace. Only the day before he started to get Akira and Yasunori to spar between them upon reaching the thirty minute mark. Today, such decision would prove ruinous if he let it.

Yasunori stopped to wipe the sweat from his forehead. 

“Akira, you okay?”

“Hmm-hmm.” 

“Rooster, get back to it.”

“No! Man, we have to talk about this!” Yasunori turned to the wild haired youth. “Look, I can imagine how you must be feeling, man. You’re fucking pissed, and rightly so. But it’s not worth picking a fight over. Look: your girl, Makoto, was she? She cares so much that she wrote you a letter. And don’t take this the wrong way, but if Shogo went through the trouble to yoink your mail and tease you with it, it must mean she wrote you real stuff.”

Akira stopped with the punching bag. The momentum as it swung back almost hit Akira dead on his face. 

“Dude… Something that special… it’s above any bullshit Shogo says or does. And you know what? He’s not getting released sooner than you. Not him. Am I lying, Daigo?”

“No.” He conceded, still punching the bag.

“See? Weigh what I just said, man. And hold on to it.”

Akira turned to look at Yasunori, instantly seeing Ryuji in him. He wept the night before he turned himself in. Makoto had just left, worried and disillusioned. His friends, still unaware. Morgana no longer at his side. He was truly and utterly alone. But his sadness then, much as his pride now, had blinded him to the truth. He was not alone then; he was not alone now.

Daigo stopped as well.

“Akira. You’re a good one. Don’t stoop down to one like Shogo. That girl of yours, she wouldn’t want that.” He spoke the truth. Akira could just picture her, angry that he would put himself at risk for a petty reason. His anger was instantly pacified by a bitter medicine: by shame. 

“You two are right.” Akira spoke. “I was about to do something foolish, for all the wrong reasons. Who knows what could have happened if you two weren’t there. Thank you.” He bowed. 

“Again with the formalities, guy. Give it a rest.”

All three took a break. They decided it was due time for a snack and some much needed normalness to their day. Yasunori eagerly volunteered to fetch the goods while Akira and Daigo waited outside the gym. Five minutes seemed a reasonable time to wait for him to get back. Even ten minutes was understandable. Things started to feel bleak when twenty minutes went by, and no sign of Yasunori still. Akira and Daigo exchanged a look of suspicion upon seeing a slender young man approach this part of the building. The way of his walk indicated purpose; he was not there by accident. 

He stopped a few meters away from them. Akira recognised him as one of the guys who sat around Shogo that morning. The mocking expression was erased from his factions, but Akira could still see it plain.

“I got a message for you two from the Dog. He says he doesn’t appreciate your friend going behind his back to steal from him. He’s very disappointed, especially in you.” He pointed at Akira. “He was okay with just leaving you alone, but now he’s forced to do something. But hear this. He says that he’d be willing to let this slide under one condition.”

Neither Akira nor Daigo said anything in acknowledgement. It was clear what Yasunori truly meant by getting snacks. He was trying to brick Akira the letter his friends had written for him. 

“He won’t touch you as long as he gets to keep Yasunori as his newest bitch.”

Daigo stood up at the sound of this. The swift, almost violent response startled the youth, making him take several steps back.

“Whoa! Hey! I’m just the messenger. It’s not even my fault.” He started backing away. “It’s yours.” He pointed at Akira before running away. For several seconds afterwards, the only sound was the imaginary echo of his footfalls and his words. The seconds turned to minutes, and the minutes turned to certainty.

“I’m going.” Akira declared stoically. 

“No.”

“What?”

“You’re not going.”

“I’m stating a fact. I’m going to go help Yasunori.”

“That would put you at risk.” Daigo’s counterargument was trigger-quick. “This is what Shogo wants. He wants you to attack so he’ll be justified to defend himself.”

“I don’t care. Yasunori’s at risk” Akira responded just as quickly.

“You wouldn’t be having a problem with just Shogo. You’d have a problem with all of his friends, and all the guys who choose to be at his side.” The stout colossus walked towards Akira. “I was given an instruction by somebody important. What he says, must be so. I was told to make sure nothing happened to you. If you go, I may not be able to defend you from them all.”

“You won’t get into trouble. I’ll vouch that this was my decision, because it is. You can come along and help me, or stand aside.”

“You’re not thinking straight.” Daigo sighed, frustrated. “You must know by now Shogo is not very different from me. He can get away with some things because of who he is acquainted with. He’s had the sense to back off so far. But my influence here can only do so much. It won’t do anybody any favours if you rush into this.”

“What about Yasunori? He’s our friend!”

“He got himself mixed in this. He compromised it all.”

“He meant well!”

“He compromised it all.” Daigo emphasised. “It’s lamentable, but if I am to keep you unharmed despite his well-being, then so be it.”

Akira knew his words would not get through to Daigo. The latter would rather take him down himself to prevent him from confronting Shogo than risk something worse. It mattered none to the former Phantom Thief. He would fight Daigo if he had to. But first, he would opt to reason.

“Why does everyone call him ‘Rooster’?” Akira’s question fell like an anvil.

Daigo did not reply.

“Why does everyone call him ‘Rooster’?” A grave, commanding tone filled Akira’s voice, a memento of the infamous Joker. 

“He… he always was very diligent, reliable, punctual.”

“About what?” Akira pressed.

“Every job he’s done for the clan.”

“Every day, everybody confronts him with his own virtues, painting his loyalty on his face when you see him… but you won’t lift a finger to aid him in his time of need.” Akira’s gaze made Daigo lower his. “He’ll keep doing those jobs for your people when he gets out, and he’ll be back here in no time. And he’ll take it in the chest, without complaining. Does he not get some loyalty?”

Daigo had nothing to say. He did not stand in Akira’s way as he made for the mess hall, where Shogo would most likely be. 

At that moment, Akira was something more than every facet to the young man anyone has seen in the correctional facility. He was the courageous, the devious, and the relentless. He was Joker - he who would put himself in the fire to protect his friends. Once more that day, he walked forward with the clear intention to fight – this time, for the only right reason he knew.


	5. Showdown at Juvie Hall

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The cause has been cast. Now is the time for consequence. Akira Kurusu enters the battlefield...

Everything was clear. Hours, days, weeks, months before, this would have seemed an outrageous decision, even to the judgement of a Trickster. But the sum of all that time, and the experiences it contained, summed into a wilful, deliberate course of action. Even as he walked towards the mess hall, Akira weighed the possible consequences. He could well undermine whatever chances he had to be released. If the warden or the guards placed the blame on him – something he thought plausible – his only recourse would be to claim self-defence.

But would that suffice? 

Akira would use his silver tongue if there was parley for it. Otherwise, he was ready to get Yasunori to safety, no matter what. If Ryuji knew, if Ann, Yusuke, Futaba, Haru knew – if Morgana somehow knew, if Makoto knew – what would they say? Would they think this an ominous reprisal of the casino gambit? Would they reprimand or try to talk him out of it? Would they support him? Or would they watch him walk into the beast’s maws, knowing nothing they said would make a difference? It is within the nature of a thief to be decisive in spite of all; perhaps this role started long before he first stepped into the Metaverse. 

 

At the end of the long hallway was a wide clearing where the lighting from the ceiling made the inmates squint upon approaching. But before the sight registered the place, it was the noise what greeted the youths into the mess hall. Quite as expected, several of the inmates were making a racket over the latest turn of events. At that time, the inmates were supposed to be engaged in their assigned activities before lunchtime, yet almost two dozen young men were lounging about one of the fixed long tables, the one closer to the kitchen – Shogo’s table. 

It was quite a distance Akira had to walk between one extreme to the other; it afforded him enough time to measure his surroundings, look out for possible advantages and disadvantages, and plan accordingly. Unlike the Palaces he once infiltrated with his friends, this place offered little room for ambushes, and unlike those otherworldly sites, today there were no guards to be seen, no shadows either, only one vicious young man with many around his finger, and one victim under his thumb.

They saw him approach. Some sized him up as they held their gaze on him. A few stood up to greet him and break his face. Shogo remained seated on the table, toying around with something in his fingers. 

“Hey, look who it is… Our dear Akira.” Shogo declared with a mocking tone. Akira imagined this epithet came from Makoto’s letter.

“Where is Yasunori?” Akira found he had little interest in cutting a witty line with a silver tongue.

“Rooster? I don’t know. Anyone’s seen him?”

All around the table, people exchanged devious looks, all feigning ignorance.

“I dunno, Akira-kun. Haven’t seen him in a… Oh no, wait, I remember. Yeah, I had him cook us something. We’re starving, and you know, that’s the least he could do after trying to steal from me.”

Akira felt a kind of anger they had no eyes to see. Even though his hands were relaxed, carelessly in his pants’ pockets, and even if his features betrayed no emotion towards what he was hearing, he still felt it – a venomous anger rising within, directed both at Shogo, and himself. 

“He’s taking a while, no?” One of Shogo’s companions asked.

“Yeah, I don’t think he’s a good cook.” Shogo remarked. “A few of my friends here are hungry. I guess they could do with a snack.” Three inmates stood up as he said this. They started their approach at Akira, who slowly took a few steps backward to make sure nothing restricted his movement for a radius of three meters. His hands were still in his pockets, closing into fists. “Fuck him up.” Shogo commanded.

It began.

The lightest of the three hungry boys ran towards Akira. He prepared a hook to throw at Akira, strong and sure to knock him down, but all too telegraphed. The boy with the unruly hair evaded the punch easily, swinging his hip to the right to gain some room on him while his left knee rose to strike between the legs. The scream that followed made Akira wince to the point of almost being sorry for him – almost. The other two were taller and stronger, and most importantly, drawing near, and Akira had no intention of playing fair.

Akira pulled his fists out from his pockets and raised them into guard; left stretched out, right near his face. He was not expecting them to fight fair either, but how they attacked after seeing him go into fighting stance would determine what Akira would need to do next. Out of the corner his eye, he looked out for any hindrance, either table or bench, or some treacherous attack from behind. In the meantime, he started circling his adversaries. 

The nearest one pounced forward. His shoulder could well have doubled as a battering ram. Akira could not entirely avoid it; all he could do was avoid being hit straight on. Though he managed to step partially out of the way, he was still knocked to the ground. Before he managed to get on top of Akira and disfigure him with his hands, the latter used his position on the ground to kick him behind the knee. Not as definite a way to take him down, but it bought some time. 

Akira rolled away and got back on his feet before the third could attack. By now, it was obvious Akira had some fighting experience, so they could not afford to underestimate him any further. For this reason, the third hungry boy measured his distance, throwing jabs at Akira, who did little to reciprocate. The second was back on his feet and approaching fast from his right side. Thus, Akira quickly retreated to his left and back. 

Trusting they would try and not hit each other, Akira quickly circled the one he has not yet been able to hit and made up for it by raining punches on his side as he paced to the left, using him as a shield against the other. His fists at such speed and proximity were not doing too much damage, but they kept him unharmed until he came up with a way to gain a better advantage. After a dozen pokes, it dawned on him, but he probably could only pull it off against one of them. 

Akira kept punching and side-stepping, subtly luring them towards a table. Even if his plan worked, he would need to get back on his feet not a heartbeat later. Though he did not even pay a glance, he knew the long grey seat was only centimetres behind him. It was now or never; no room for hesitation of any kind. Akira quickly jumped back, using the table’s seat as a step. The sole of his other foot caught the edge of the table right across. And then, it was all a matter of physics. Everything froze, contained in that fraction of a second in which Akira pushed himself into a jump, gaining almost half a metre over his closest adversary, whom realised too late what the young man’s aim was.

And he could not do a thing to stop him.

The only precaution Akira took was using his forehead instead of his elbow. Still, the expressions of surprise, disbelief, and wild resolution all faded to the sound of arm colliding against head. For the slightest moment, Akira felt intense pain and thought he had broken his arm. He barely even took a glance at the tall youth, who lay on the ground, knocked out. He groped about the floor as he tried to stand back up, but the third was already on him, punching away in a frenzy. 

For all the might of his flurry, he only managed to graze his head, resulting in a bleeding gash. Even when caught in such vulnerable position, Akira knew where to place his limbs. Belly up, his feet pushed against his opponent’s stomach, keeping his punches at bay for the most part. The attack became clumsy and ineffective. Akira managed to grab the right arm and pull it towards him, and as he did so, his legs stopped pushing away, and instead wrapped around the mid-section. With his free hand, he punched away, directly at the nose. It did not take long for it start gushing blood and mucus. 

And when it became clear he had broken his nose, he let go. The third of Shogo’s lackeys staggered back, fingers on his nostrils trying to contain the flow. This was the definitive opening. Akira got back on his feet, rushed forward and kicked his adversary on the stomach like it were a rugby ball. If he cared for fighting, this could be called a victory. But the only triumph Akira wanted was to get his friend from under Shogo’s thumb. With plenty of stamina, he turned towards Shogo’s corner.

And his breath was instantly was tackled out of him. 

Countless feet kicked and stomped on him. They caught on his ribs, his lower back, his hands, even his right leg, which got some special treatment from one ruthless detective about a month earlier. It was now that the adrenaline started to wear off, and the pain, thusly, had his nerves screaming. The only thing in his mind was the question of how was he to get himself out of this position, how as he to counterattack. He was drawing a blank.

“Whoa, whoa, wait. Wait, fuck!” Shogo yelled out from his seat at the table. “I said wait, you dipshits! I want him conscious a bit longer.” His echo of his steps stung in Akira’s ears as he walked closer. “Before my bitches turn you into my personal carpet, just know… this was all your fault. Here, a little memento for your troubles.” He threw something small at him. It landed right by his eyes. 

It was a tooth, still bloody at the root. He did not need any explanation. It was Yasunori’s. Instantly, Akira’s mind exploded into a rage trip. His scream did not obey the physical pain he was feeling; it was a suffering of the mind and the heart. It was the primal response to seeing the fruit of Shogo’s vileness. It was the awareness, mercilessly sinking in, that Shogo was not actually wrong. It was Akira’s fault. It would have been wrong to concede in the first place, but he could deny the logic of the situation, not even if it worked under Shogo’s twisted view. Yasunori’s suffering was tied to Akira’s defiance.

Injustice. That was the very thing trampling on him now, as Shogo gave the order to carry on with the carnage. Injustice as what Ryuji, Ann, Yusuke, Makoto, Futaba, Haru, and all the people he held dear were made to suffer. Injustice at having his future snatched away almost a year ago. Injustice as circumstance demanding he be imprisoned, away from his friends, from Makoto, to ensure Shido’s punishment, which should have come to be a long time ago, in even the eyes of the country’s justice system. In Akira’s scream was the harrowing awareness that he stared at defeat, eye to eye.

His senses went numb for a moment.

He could not know it, but at every ensuing second, there was one pair of feet less on him. The shadows danced all about the mess hall, and Akira could see only but a fraction of it from one eye unobstructed by a swollen eyelid. The screams slithered in, the alarm in voices that once gloated so gleeful. Hurting all over, Akira struggled to get back up; every effort was recompensed by one arm or leg giving in, making him fall back down. He would not give up, not even now.

“Come.” A familiar voice said in his ear. It was grave and low, but calm still, and saintly patient. ‘Sojiro?’ Akira thought. As his mind became clear, he realised someone had come to his aid. The shadows came into clearer image now as a strong arm helped him back up. It was Daigo.

“Daigo-san?” Akira said, with a thick iron and rust taste in his palate.

“I failed once in the task I was given. I will not fail a second time.” 

Akira looked around the mess hall. There were considerably less people in it than a few minutes ago; whomever was left lay on the ground, groaning in pain from Daigo’s rampage. Shogo was nowhere to be found. 

“You did all of this?” Akira asked, already knowing the answer.

“You need to sit down. You were roughed up bad.”

“Not yet. Where is Shogo?” 

“Must have run towards the library. He got his friends to lock most doors in and out of the mess hall.”

“Did he also get the guards to take early lunch?” Akira’s question was met with a brief silence.

“Do not ask things you do not want answers for.” Daigo responded.

Akira nodded in jaded acknowledgement. He began walking towards the hallway that led to the library. 

“Akira, wait…”

“Go look for Yasunori. He may be in the kitchen…”

Akira did not hear a word from Daigo – neither acknowledgement nor protest. Soon enough, he was greeted by the darkness in between the lighting of the mess hall and the fixtures of the wall. His steps were close to a limp, but as he went along the hallway, his movements regained some of their poise and agility. In his mind, there was only one thing left to do. He knew whatever he chose to do would be nowhere as vicious as what Shogo would have done that day. Akira’s actions, however, would still be doubtless and unyielding. He had to punish Shogo.

As expected, Shogo had gone to the library, for the one single purpose he would set foot in such a place: for an ambush. He expected someone to simply walk through the door, leaving themselves ripe for Shogo’s attack with a paperweight, heavy enough to crush bone if properly handled. This way, he could gain advantage even over a brawler such as Daigo. If it were Akira, one such strike could finish what his lackeys had started. 

But he did not expect that a pursuer would take such unorthodox approach as crashing in through the small window next to the door. The sudden crash and the sound of breaking glass took him off guard; the surprise turned him pale all over, too startled to attack as he meant. In a show of confidence, or arrogance, Akira used this moment to brush the glass off his shoulders, while completely downplaying the shards that did cut his skin. 

Shogo finally went in to try and hit Akira in the head with the paperweight, but even now, after the fights and after the trampling he went through, he was much too agile. Akira disarmed him by punching between his chest and his shoulder. A second strike went in Shogo’s stomach. The third was a vertical fist on the forehead, right above the nose, which sent him towards a nearby wall. A fourth, a fifth, a sixth. These strikes were different from what Akira had shown. This was not Daigo’s training come to fruition, but a style unseen to most: it was the way of a Phantom Thief. 

In just three seconds, Akira reduced Shogo to a bruised, swollen face. Curled up on the floor, helpless against one who seemed an unassuming newcomer, Shogo started to sob.

“I’m, I’m sorry! I was just fronting! You know how it is! It’s just, being behind bars changes you!” Shogo fumbled with his words. His brain evidently looked for the most appropriate words to appeal to Akira’s compassion. “I used to be good! I swear! You’ve got to believe me!”

Akira gripped him by jaw, with a hand as strong as an eagle’s talon.

“You stupid, stupid boy…” Akira said with a slithering voice, much unlike the composed, polite youth he thought he had known. “You thought you could enforce your will in this little world by abusing my friends.” The bale in his tone assured him this extended also to what he did about the letter that morning. “You will no longer disgrace this world with your words and deeds.” A punch to the face. “You will make up for it all, for what you did to Yasunori and all the damage done today” Another. “You will rehabilitate, and you will grow up to become a responsible, righteous adult.” One more. “Because If you don’t…“ Akira closed in, staring right into his eyes. “I will steal your heart.” 

Akira’s hands dropped to his sides. He kept his gaze in silence for a second longer, and then calmly walked out of the library, closing the door behind him. Shogo lay frozen in shock for over ten minutes. He knew, by digesting the words he was just told, that he got off easy. 

Out in the hallway, the lighting fixtures on the wall stung Akira’s eyes, the dark spots were an abyssal black, and the resulting chiaroscuro of the scene held him in a trance. Dizzy, disoriented though walking in a straight line, Akira fell to the ground face first. Ahead of him, from his clouded vision, he saw two shadows running towards him. Each took a side, and carefully hoisted him up as they walked, back out into the mess hall. 

When he finally came to, Akira saw Daigo and Yasunori next to him. Daigo looked serious as usual, though relief made a subtle, almost imperceptible difference. Yasunori puckishly smiled, looking the also the same, except for a bump in his mouth – a tissue rolled up into a ball to soak up the blood. 

“Look who’s come around.” Yasunori said. “Shit, you look worse than me!”

“Debatable.” Daigo added.

“Was that a joke!?” The disbelief, and the tissue, made his words hard to understand.

“Just a fact of life. Swollen and bruised Akira will never look as bad as regular Yasunori.”

It was now lunchtime. The unhurt inmates sat at the tables like nothing happened. Shogo, actively avoiding looking in Akira’s direction, was assisting the clean-up next to his associates. Yasunori and Daigo continued to bicker for a while, each in their own way, in a somewhat friendly manner. In spite of all that happened, the day seemed to be ending on a lighter note than he anticipated after breakfast. In a strange turn of events, Akira found himself wishing he would not be released for a couple of weeks more. On one hand, he dreaded thinking of his friends outside seeing him like this. On the other, he rather looked forward to waiting out his sentence alongside his newest friends.

“Oh, by the way, guy. It got a bit battered and dirty and shit, and… yikes, I don’t know if this is your blood or if it’s mine, but here.” Yasunori handed him several sheets of paper. “I did manage to get it back. Only fair you got to read it since, you know, you were supposed to in the first place.” 

“I see.” Akira took the letter, three pages long. He was at disbelief. Though the pages were mangled from loveless handling and dirty with dried blood, he still felt shivers upon having it in his hands. His heart beat quick and restless. 

“If you want to read it now, I suggest you go to your cell. You will not have privacy out here. We will save you something to eat.” Daigo said.

“Yeah… thanks.” Akira responded. It was clear by the scattered demeanour of his words that he had no mind or thought for anything other than these three sheets of paper. He walked towards the cell he shared with Yasunori, uncaring about the curious gazes that fell on him as he passed by. 

The afternoon light that poured in from the small window sufficed to light the cell. Akira sat on his bunk, with his aching back against the wall, and started reading. Despite it being typed rather than handwritten, he still knew who wrote what, far before it was expressed on paper. For twelve minutes, his expression was fixed in a type of joyful stupor. The fact that his friends were working towards his release only made it all the more touching. And of course, there were thTeir best wishes for the coming year.

He read the first two pages twice over. Afterwards, he felt convinced reading this letter was worth the pain, the blood, the physical strain of fighting without a Persona threefold at the very least. The third page waited at his side. Akira hesitated to read it; the echo of Shogo’s words still bounced off the walls of his mind. However, after reading past the first words, the corrupting stain of Shogo’s rendition was cleansed by the thought of Makoto reading them out loud. Even the very way she addressed him teased to steal the breath right out of him.

“My dear Akira.

As you know by reading our friends’ input, we worked hard to make sure this letter reached you today, New Year’s Eve. Therefore, you’ll understand I can’t really afford to structure my thoughts and feelings like I should, not within such short span of time. But even if I had a day longer, a week even, I couldn’t possibly put it all neatly in order – my world is a new, different thing altogether since I met you, and thinking and feeling have become the same thing to me. It’s scary. And I wish you were right here beside me to tell me it’ll all be okay, that I’ll do okay. 

Even as I write, I imagine you sitting on my bed right behind me, approaching in that sneaky, playful way of yours. And then I imagine the touch of your hands on my shoulders, and your lips by my ear telling me that all will be okay, that I will be okay, and then something else – not sure what, you always have a way of surprising me. And you know what? I believe it, every single word. That too is scary, because I know you mean the things you say. That moment at the Culture Festival still makes my heart beat a little faster. Just know I felt the same way then, and I feel the same way now. I love you, intense and fiercely.

By the time you’re reading this, we’ll be putting our plan into motion. As you may imagine, everyone is vehement and resolute about it. Akira, please have faith in us – we’re not giving up on you, we’re not abandoning you, not now, not ever. I reckon you turned yourself in for an honourable reason, but I must confess I felt robbed when I heard the full story. I’m not sure my sister suspects you and I are a couple, but she still wouldn’t look at me in the eye for some time. That’s in the past now. She’s also on board with this. I know, now that we’re on the same side, we’ll be stronger than ever.

I’ve never told you this before, but I took to listening to love songs during the time you helped me with Eiko. She actually would show me some of the things she liked. You’d be surprised; she’s into very diverse genres. My sister noted that I’ve developed the habit of humming while I read or study. Between you and I, sometimes I like to sing those songs when I’m alone and sure nobody’s around to hear. Even if I proved a bad singer, I’d like to sing those songs to you. I trust you’ll be a sober judge, and if you turn out to be a mean one, do make sure to spoil me afterwards.

Though I could go on, I think I’ll bring this letter to a close. I’m aware I’ve taken a liberty to go on a little longer than the rest, but I couldn’t help myself. I needed to reach out to you. Please, do your best as you go through your sentence, as I know deep in my heart you will. My knowledge on the nuances of the penal system is not profound enough yet, so I cannot know what you must be going through. But I know, no matter what it is, you’ll come out on top. And if you ever feel discouraged, think of your friends who will never give up on you.

And also, if you would, please think of me.

All my love, Makoto.”

Akira read all pages to the collective letter in silence, but as his eyes hovered over the final lines, his voice involuntarily uttered a quiet “Makoto”. Bathed in the contrast between dark and light inside of the cell, Akira Kurusu felt a furtive tear sliding down his aching face, then another, and then another. 

That night, all inmates were allowed to see the fireworks outside in the garden and partake of the countdown. Some voices were livelier than others. Akira’s was not, but not for a lack of trying. He was happy, though, that Yasunori and Daigo put forward enough enthusiasm for the three. For many of the youths, the dawning year represented their release, and a second chance. This collective spirit sufficed to balance Akira’s state of mind, shining some hope into the sourness he recently developed. There would be time to meditate on the matter.

For now, he observed the spectacle, aware that his friends thought of him as much as he did of them. 

\------------------------------------------------------

BONUS: Someone commented how cool it would be if Makoto partook of the inevitable showdown, and I agree. Though that was never my intention with where the story headed, I couldn’t help myself, so at least for the sake of how I think it would turn out, here is an alternate scenario taking place after Akira defeated Shogo’s three lackeys. Just for reference, I wrote this while listening to Peter Gabriel’s “Signal to Noise”. If you would, imagine it unfolding to the tune at the 4:14 mark and onwards. I think it fits.

Sae reassured her the night before that the reputation of a correctional facility was grossly exaggerated most of the time. The potential for violence and abuse was nowhere nearly as high as it was for adult penitentiary institutions, and even that was portrayed badly in television and film. Those words flew in front of Makoto’s eyes as it they were a cruel, ironic joke as she walked into the mess hall to see eight inmates viciously kicking and stomping another. But logic itself shattered when she saw who was on the receiving end of the abuse.

That morning, she woke up eagerly, enthusiastic, and even giddy at the prospect of paying Akira a surprise visit. Sae used whatever influence she possessed to allow for the Phantom Thief to receive a visit, but they would only allow one person to see him. The scene at LeBlanc the day before saw all six of Akira’s comrades debating who should get to make the visit. Some arguments were more convincing than others, but in the end, everyone agreed Makoto should be the one – she was the second-in-command, after all. Beneath the sober exterior, she beamed with joy.

That sensation, the eagerness, and the surprise she meant for her boyfriend – all gone, and replaced by unbridled fury. At that moment, her mind and instinct were one, and they spelled ‘protection’. Makoto ran forward, to the surprise of Shogo and a few of his companions. The initial response was product of not seeing a member of the opposite sex in a long time. That fact that Makoto was a pretty girl put a sweet tone to the surprise; for some, it appealed to their lower instincts. But for Shogo, it was a realisation that put a sinister smirk on his face. From his advantageous position, he retreated into the shadows, planning his next move.

When it came to the confrontation in the middle of the mess hall, things appeared to take an uncanny twist. Many were surprised to see Akira had such skill and imagination for fighting. Those same people were terrified to find that Makoto was even more apt, and more ferocious. The scene became a cacophony of Makoto’s grunting as she kicked and punched, and the sound of bone and joint fracturing as a consequence. She broke the jaw of one who seemed to take the most pleasure in hurting Akira. The rest got quicker punishment, but not any more lenient. 

One by one, Akira’s assailants went down. Whatever attack they threw at Makoto was reciprocated mercilessly. The grey tiled floor was a canvas she painted with blood. Just when it seemed all resistance was cut down, several more ran into through a hallway. Makoto was not about to wait for them. She ran towards them, encountering the first with a stiff knee to the chest. The others suffered similarly. 

Then, from the shadows emerged a vicious figure: Shogo, wielding a blade crafted in the welding workshop. His intention was clear in his approach. After catching Makoto from behind, he had unspeakable things in mind for her, all of which he would make sure Akira witnessed. Little did he realise, Akira did witness his design after the first step in her direction. With what little vitality remained in him, Akira threw himself at Shogo, catching him in a blood hold, with legs locked around his torso. This effectively put a stop to Shogo’s plan as he fell backwards with Akira still clung to him. 

Shogo struggled to break free, hitting Akira’s chest and stomach with his elbows. It came to fruition soon after. Free to carry on, Shogo decided to get back at Akira before he moved in on Makoto. With Akira’s back against the floor, Shogo climbed on top of him and started choking him with clear lethal intent. Within seconds, the blood flow to Akira’s brain would be cut off, and the rest would be tragic science. But while caught in his bloody glee, he failed to realise Makoto was done with the incoming attackers, and was already homing in on his direction.

“LEAVE HIM ALONE!” She roared as she punched Shogo in the temple, breaking his hold and all of hope of ever gaining advantage. “NEVER! EVER! TOUCH HIM!” She yelled with each punch against Shogo’s head, breaking nose, eye socket, cheek… When she was done, not even Shogo’s mother would recognise him. He would live to see his face in the mirror and weep, and he would know the relation between his state and his deeds. 

Makoto went over to Akira’s side. She was horrified to see the number the inmates had done on him. The face she so loved was swollen and bloody. She hesitated to caress him for comfort, for fear of causing him pain. Still, his eyes met hers. And even beneath the product of the abuse he suffered, she saw the loving, picaresque gaze she knew and loved so well.

“Never fuck with the Queen…” He said with a wounded smirk. 

“Please, don’t…” Makoto was on the verge of tears, from relief, sorrow, and anger. “Akira, what did they do to you?” 

“It’ll be okay.” His voice was quiet. “At least, I got to see you…” 

Then silence.

“Fuck!” A slender young man walked in. “Akira! Yo, Daigo. Come help me!” He and a stout, well-built young man ran towards Akira.

“Are you two his friends?” Makoto asked, regaining her composure.

“Y-yeah… Fuck me… He did this to help me.” Yasunori started to weep.

“Please, help me. Where is the infirmary?” Makoto held on to Akira’s arm.

“I’ll help you.” Daigo said, putting Akira’s other arm around him.

Together, they carried him as fast as they could towards the infirmary, led by Yasunori. An hour later, Akira lay asleep on a cot, bandaged all over. Makoto sat at his side, lovingly caressing his hair. Yasunori and Daigo walked in, with a concerned look on their faces.

“He looks to be stable.” Daigo commented.

“Hey, are you Makoto?” Yasunori asked.

“Yes.” She responded without taking her eyes off of Akira. “Why? Has he said anything about me?”

“Yeah.” Yasunori replied, having witnessed the second half of what her visit turned out to be. “He said you are the best.”

“Did he now?” Makoto smiled sadly, taking in the rhythm of her boyfriend’s breathing. Slow and mending. She knew she needed to have a word with the authorities about what happened that day. The dreadful, horrendous notion that Akira might have suffered more grievous injury stalked her train of thought. He may even have died. Makoto struggled greatly to banish the thought, eyes fixed on Akira’s slumber. The warmth of her gaze on him was as remarkable a sight as her warlike glare. 

Silently and wordlessly, Makoto promised she would get him out of there.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Epilogue to this little arc coming next. 
> 
> After that, hopefully some Morgana, Futaba and Haru centred stuff. 
> 
> Then the big one: The Bloody Masquerade.


	6. From Here Until…

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The time has come. Akira Kurusu walks free once more.

The sound of distant explosions remained near in his thoughts. An imagined smell of gunpowder brought him back to dear times, to watching an airplane spectacle with mum and dad when he was five, to a fireworks show in miniature with Futaba, Boss and Morgana. There was little time to plan something special for New Year’s Eve with Makoto and the rest. Had things gone differently on the day before Christmas, he may have started thinking of something special, just the two of them. Regardless, all would have gathered to see this country greet the New Year with renewed heart. 

Instead, he was apart from them, awake past midnight, on the first hours to the New Year, staring at the fabric beneath Yasunori’s bunk. His face and body still ached from the earlier fray. And to top it all, he had a ravenous craving for Sojiro’s coffee and curry. But despite it all, Akira Kurusu felt at peace. His friends outside were working towards his prompt release; his friends inside had his back and he had theirs. These were invigorating certainties; sufficient resources to withstand whatever may come.

The New Year inside of the youth correctional facility began much as any other day. Yasunori still slept in his bunk, snoring like a toddler. Akira decided against waking up, and instead tried doing push-ups on the cell’s floor to work up an appetite for breakfast. At number twenty, his entire back screamed in pain. Rather than resent the damage from the day before, Akira felt it was a fair number to overcome, one more each day. While he waited for Yasunori to eventually wake up, Akira gazed up at the small window and wondered how his friends were doing.

Throughout the following weeks, there would be depositions, favours asked, support gained among peers and co-workers, written petitions, open speeches, extensive research and information tracing on the case that Masayoshi Shido put against Akira Kurusu on the first instance. The first inklings of a result took only a couple of days to become visible, which only pushed them all forward in their purpose. But on January the First, all began with a cup of coffee in the Headquarters of the Phantom Thieves, LeBlanc. 

Sojiro Sakura decided to leave the sign on the door with the word ‘Closed’ facing outward. The place was reserved exclusively for the Phantom Thieves, and against normal schedule, the lights inside would stay past the service hour. The turning of the wheels after that day would be slow, but reliable and steady. There was no doubt on their success. 

“I think it’s really gracious of Boss to let us use the French press while he’s out buying groceries.” Makoto spoke. “But are you sure you know what you’re doing, Ryuji?”

“Hell yeah! I’ve seen Akira do this a lot. Piece of cake!” Ryuji looked intensely confident behind the counter, though his coffee-water ratio was quite different from Akira’s, as did the time he let the water sit after boiling. There was a distinct lack of delicacy to how Ryuji sank the plunger. What could be said to his favour was how quickly he picked up on the step-by-step procedure.

“What blend are you using, Ryuji?” Ann asked from her spot on the booth.

“Lemme check real quick.” He picked up the lustred bag, making it quite clear that he saw no distinction between kinds and breeds of coffee. “Mocha Matari.”

“Oh, my favourite.” Makoto remarked to lighten the dread surrounding Ryuji’s place at the press, realising too late what her comment entailed.

“Then we know who gets my first serve! Here you go, Queen!”

“Um, thanks.” Makoto reluctantly placed her fingers around the white porcelain cup, and under the plate. “You know, coffee’s always too hot for me when served. I like to let it sit and cool for a while. Futa-chan, you like your coffee hot. Would you like a sip?” She subtly pushed the plate in her direction.

“I’m not touching that.” Futaba said, barely raising her eyes from her laptop’s screen.

“How about you, Yusuke-kun?” Makoto looked pleadingly.

“I believe Futaba and I agree for once.” Yusuke declared with detachment. In face of his denial, Makoto hoped Futaba would choose to try Ryuji’s coffee over agreeing with Yusuke.

“Yeah, that’s one for the books. Woo-hoo.” She remarked without enthusiasm.

“Haru?” Makoto turned to her fellow graduate from Shujin. “Please help me.”

“DEAR GOD, NO!” She exclaimed almost gasping, the curls of her hair bouncing at once. “I mean… I like mine with milk in it.” She smiled gently, attempting to make up for her lack of tact.

“Yeah, I like mine with milk in it too.” Ann agreed. “Speaking of, what’s taking you so long with mine, Ryuji?”

Makoto then realised that the only aid her friends could provide was draw attention from her. Though a merciful gesture, her palate would still need to contend with this cup. The seconds it took for the cup to cool to her liking were a solace.

“Coming right up!”

“I’m rather hungry myself. Is there a chance Skull could make some curry for us as well?” Yusuke’s comment instantly earned him spiteful looks from everybody at the table.

“Hey, come now! I’m sure Boss will cook something for us when he gets back!” Ann tried to gracefully dissuade Ryuji from heeding the idea.

“But I’m hungry now.” Yusuke insisted absent-mindedly.

“Ryuji-kun is hard at work making coffee for all of us.” Haru said. “Let’s not pile up more work on him.”

“It wouldn’t be any trouble, guys.” Ryuji smiled. I’ve watched Joker make curry a few times. I think I can give it a go.” 

“I have an idea!” Makoto very nearly closely interrupted. “I often cook for my sister. I’ll make something for you all.” 

“Phew.” Futaba’s comment was as sneaky as it was lacking in courtesy towards the prospect of a breakfast cooked by Ryuji.

“Would that be acceptable, Makoto-san?” Yusuke asked.

“It’s no problem at all.” Makoto smiled warmly. As she stood from her seat, she looked back at the cup Ryuji made. Though she was not eager to try it, she thought it would be rude to let his work go to waste. She took the cup with as she stepped behind the counter to browse through the refrigerator’s contents. Without the familiarity Akira and Sojiro had with each ingredient’s place, Makoto’s options were fairly limited. In the end, she decided to play it safe and cook rise with egg and a side of pickled plums. Nobody objected to this.

Ryuji joined the rest at the booth while Makoto insisted to making coffee for the rest. The image that presented itself before her looked home-like. Despite the great undertaking they were about to tackle, they allowed themselves a moment of carefree harmony. In between the brief banter, the eager eating and the smiles, Makoto simply lost herself. It was close to looking and feeling perfect, but for one thing still missing from the picture. Akira at her side. Funny, she thought, how the scenario came into full circle. Their enthusiasm and resolve to secure his release ran on the same energy they possessed from unity.

Without thinking about it, Makoto brought the cup to her lips. Bland as it was, the experience was not the dreadful assault to the tongue everyone feared. Nevertheless, the difference between Ryuji’s hand and Akira’s was as unmeasurable distance. Maybe love really is the secret ingredient, Makoto smiled and blushed at the thought.

“Alright! Good breakfast!” Futaba called out vigorously. “Time to work!”

From that moment on, Makoto led the rhythm of work like a conductor to an orchestra. She was Wagner directing the Ride of the Phantom Thieves. She was Bacalov plunging into the fire than humanity carries within. Nobody’s efforts paled next to hers. Whether by research on the original case against Akira, a review of Shido’s deeds as well as those of his associates, and even locating people across town who could offer testimony, everybody delivered. They would not slack off, for they knew instinctively that no matter how life was treating Akira in Juvie Hall, he must also be hard at work.

And so he was. After breakfast, he took on a new duty, heralded by Yasunori, who spoke lively with his mouth full, either from enthusiasm or discomfort from a tooth recently pulled.

“So, Strider.” 

“Huh?” Akira was sure Yasunori was talking to him, yet the use of a nickname took him off guard.

“That’s what they’re calling you now.” Yasunori told him. “Strider.”

“Strider?” Daigo wondered.

“Yeah, you know – after the punching, kicking thing yesterday.” Yasunori chuckled. “Everyone’s been talking about it.”

“Does that include Shogo?” Daigo asked.

“You bet. I doubt he’ll be doing anything, though. He’s not even looking at us and he’s right there.” The young man nodded in the direction of Shogo’s dark corner. Indeed, nobody in that table appeared to dare acknowledging their existence.

“That’s probably good.” Akira remarked nonchalantly. “Why Strider, though?” 

“Hey, in terms of nicknames, you could do a lot worse, you know. You could be Worm.”

“Any kind of bird is bad enough.” Daigo teased.

“Hey, don’t get cute!” Yasunori argued. “What do they even call you, anyway?”

“They don’t call me at all.” Such was the closest thing to boasting Daigo would say. Although his response was simple enough, Akira thought it sounded incredibly ominous. 

“Anyway, Strider.” 

“Just call me Akira.” 

“Whatever. Two new guys are coming in, I hear.” Yasunori told them. “Siblings. Grievous vandalism and theft in Harajuku, it seems.” 

“With those credentials, they’re gonna get eaten alive, I reckon. What do you say, Strider? Wanna go meet them?”

Akira, once Joker, now Strider inside of this strange little world, smirked at the question.

“Sure. I think our table looks a bit empty as it is.”

Akira continued to make friends across the following weeks, helping newcomers acclimatise to life inside of the correctional facility, offering advice and looking out to quell any and all abuse he could. Soon enough, his skills at welding, cooking and gardening earned him more respect than his stand against Shogo did. When coming from under the shadow of the bullied, his skills and character turned him into a role model, even under the eyes of the adult staff. With each name he learned, each fellow youth he helped, a familiar sensation sparked anew in his heart. He experienced it upon meeting his closest friends, and becoming closer to them. It was as if a new confidant dawned within. 

The communion with these kindred spirits went on well until the end of the month. It was January the 31st. He was exhausted from such an eventful day, one which began at the garden, continued in the library, and ended with him cooking curry for all. With not even a glance at the starry sky through the cell’s window, he fell asleep as soon as his head touched the pillow. That night, Akira dreamt.

Akira lost the count to how many times he has visited this place, a dimension bathed in blue. Somewhere both welcoming and oppressive. Though the appearance remained the same, this was no longer a prison to him; no bars to keep him contained, no striped attire to signal him a captive to be judged, and no binding of his fate to the design of a capricious God. Before him, the uncanny sight of a strange man with big eyes and an extraordinarily long nose, and a girl with otherworldly yellow irises and formal blue attire greeted him with kindness and familiarity. 

This was a home both within and without, and Akira somehow felt this would be the last time he set foot in it. He stepped forward from what once was his cell towards the desk at the centre of the room. Igor and Lavenza called him here. The former’s warm chuckle instantly dispelled the dread Yaldabaoth had amassed under Igor’s guise for almost a year. Gone was the cavernous, imperious face that once spoke behind those eyes and nose. To Akira, it was like greeting the world’s ugliest loving grandfather.

“Magnificent!” Igor said. Though this strange face always gazed him with a wide grin, this is the first time it matched the mirth within the individual.

“But…” Lavenza chimed, turning her face to her side in sorrow. “You’re confined in reality now, even after you escaped the prison within your heart. What an ironic turn of events for the fortune of others over your own well-being.” Her words were a reminder of a wound that scarred gracefully. “Still… it will do. You chose the correct path with your own volition. You did not compromise your beliefs for personal gain to the very end.” The corners of her mouth curled into a serene smile.

A little blue light appeared in front of Akira, transforming into a Tarot card that hovered atop his open palm. It read “Le Monde”. The World. A design as peculiar as the rest of the deck in his heart, as whimsically defiant to the tradition, a signal of consummation to this journey.

“The last arcana you have taken hold of is “The World”. It is the willpower to stand up in this world on your own two feet, unswayed by no one.” In Lavenza’s voice Akira could sense the nuances that defined the two little girls who once constituted her; Caroline’s enthusiasm without malice, Justine’s calm without apathy. “That will become the basis of hope toward a future with your teammates who share the same belief.”

Akira watched the card slowly turning in his hand, entranced by the meaning in Lavenza’s words. At every full turn, he could see the image on the card portraying everybody he came to know throughout the year, every face he cherished, every heart that – though only to his vague knowledge – pushed forward to set him free.

“Now that you’ve gained that power, you are no longer an existence that wanders alone…” Lavenza declared.

The card shifted back into that tiny mesmerising light, seemingly disintegrating within Akira’s palm closing into a fist. But the light remained, pulsating brighter, within himself. 

“My own duties end here as well…” Igor spoke. Akira felt something stirring within him, a sensation akin to depleted lungs filling with air. A dull pain sparked instantly in his inner wiring – the sorrow of knowing that the farewell was coming. “... You were truly a remarkable guest.” These words were new to Akira, yet he felt as if he had already heard them before, one or many lifetimes ago. 

“Thank you.” Akira managed to say before Igor and Lavenza illuminated this little world whole with their light, promptly disappearing into ethereal wisps like fireflies. Alone in the vacant former prison of the soul, his surroundings followed suit – the light bathed all and then vanished, leaving a black immensity behind. The passing of a shining blue butterfly was the final memento of his stay at the Velvet Room, signalling thus the end of his rehabilitation, and the end of the dream.

He thought he woke up as soon as the dream came to an end, unaware that time is no linear phenomenon in this realm of spirit. He was surprised at the absence of drowse, or tiredness, not knowing that he had rested the whole night through without discomfort or unease. Akira lived through the week, and most of the one that followed with constant vigour, but also a slight sensation of loss. It was a bittersweet feeling, which tinted most of his thoughts. 

This continued until nearly the middle of February. One such random day appeared to begin as usual, but it was not Yasunori’s voice what he first heard that morning. It was instead warden Himonya’s who came to let him know he was receiving a special visit. He would not say from who, but a peculiar calmness about the man hinted it may be time for a few farewells. Still, though the actual news about his release came half an hour later from Sae Niijima, Makoto’s sister, the anticipation could not dull the surprise, nor the rush of emotions that broke free inside of his mind. This would only be the first of several goodbyes. But same as he hoped to return to his friends, to stay at their side in the future, he hoped this would not be the last time he saw Yasunori and Daigo, two friends and comrades to a different battle. As a seal to their farewell, they swore a vow to do better when they too joined Akira in the outside world.

The light of the day stung Akira’s eyes as he walked out of the facility a free man. Everything felt so quiet, even as he got in Sojiro’s car. He knew, however, the sound would return mirthfully soon after they approached the confines of Yongen-jaya.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading. At first I intended for this thing to be two chapters long, three at the most, but I found myself rather fascinated by the possibilities of a setting the game didn't explore. Thanks to a few readers, I also saw there was interest for a few 'what-if' character-centred scenarios, which are essentially the beating heart of the Persona spin-off series: characters that feel real, to which we develop a certain fondness. I certainly had a lot of fun exploring and writing this. I hope you enjoyed reading.
> 
> Stay tuned for more.

**Author's Note:**

> Things for "Bloody Masquerade" are going to be sombre. I'm going to try and be lighthearted with this one, even humourous.


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